


Health to the Company

by DystopianUtahraptor



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Cannibalism, Drabble Anthology, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:37:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6251050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DystopianUtahraptor/pseuds/DystopianUtahraptor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So. A wendigo, a ghost-talker, a programmer and her android brother, together with their bizarre reprogrammed dogbot all decide to try and take out a corrupt corporate warlord ... and nothing quite goes as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awake - Microdrabble Trilogy

**Author's Note:**

> Rewrite of a really old set of drabbles from way back when.  
> Might feature potential pairing shenanigans later, but that remains to be seen.  
> BEWARE: Wendigo aren't pleasant and do eat people, so there is blood, guts, and cannibalism [even in mention] ahead.
> 
> -As a start, let's have a small intro trilogy to these five waking in sync around The Beast-

**Awake I - War and The Beast**

The pangs are prominent, and are what initially wake it.

Deep within the entangled mess of wires and cables up near the ceiling of the Dome, it wakes. A shuffling stir of heavy fabric against hardened nylon, the hum of electrical current droning out the sounds of outside.

It unfolds with a crickling snap of long-unused joints, yawning wide to display the tools of the trade plainly. Hearing returns, giving away nothing but the typical ambiance and in safety, it uncoils from its space to resume its vigilance above. Stretches to further limber are taken with every stride and movement, steps careful and practiced across the usual perch.

Eyes glint silver, color of snow and frigid ends, a brief shift before resuming the abyss of oceans; dark, cruel, unforgiving. Scan of below before it begins to bubble and boil, starting in its chest and pushing up through parted jaws thrown wide.

It starts as a screech, escalates to the sound of a roar over those below. An assertion of dominance over its hunting ground, a reminder of monsters of old rising anew to begin the hunt again.

**Awake II - Death and Vatka**

It echoes through the air, the roar of the unpredictable unlikely guardian living at the ceiling. Every morning, at this time, he hears it down in the depths. Too organic to be mechanical, reverberating with the stale wind off cables and wires over the Cemetery Basin. They vibrate eerily, a song of ghosts through makeshift tombstones and across painted imagery of gape-mouthed spirits swirling through the ruins of what was once the bustling hub of the city, a bastion of the old world.

The dead are disturbingly expansive, and for others it is a lonesome lifestyle. Not so much for him, who hears the speech of the passed in whispers and laughter. Nor for his hulking mechanical companion.

She follows him down through a carefully-wound path, from altar to the plateau, rising as he beckons from where she sat not unlike a living dog. He muses a little to her, and she titters in that strange way of hers at his revelations.

Greetings to early visitors, both to the cemetery and to the apothecary gleaming like a beacon at the center of the depression. It is a calm morning, and hopefully an equally calm day.

**Awake III - Famine and Plague**

The call is heard much easier in the upper reaches of the city.

It is far too normal to truly pay mind to, so muses the Russian behind a cylinder of interfacing consoles, eyebrow over one eye quirking. Not often emotion is expressed on that face, and even then, it is brief before apathy reigns it all back in and it falls flat.

Someone to her side asks about plans concerning the Dome above them. She whisks her fingers down and up, pulling a series of files out of the column of screens, a push sending them to the other's console. Banter back and forth, the sound of machinery drowning out speech.

A panel came loose high above them in the night. It's a hazard they can't leave; Dome panels are massive and can cause more damage than any one attack by Kane if they fall. She intercepted the messages and brought Plague to boot. Together, they arrived with the Cablers to the area. They've all been working since early morning.

Her android brother is with a group above, stabilizing equipment and tools, or holding the offending panel itself in place while his comrades work diligently to bolt it back down. Someone shouts from one corner, waving a hand to catch attention. The metal has rusted through in this corner. They will have to replace a substantial portion of it to ensure the safety of those below.

What should only be a morning job has just gotten longer.


	2. Morning Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death wakes earlier than most to make sure everything is sound for the day to come.

Four-thirty in the morning was always a bit chill. Dawn usually was, even inside the Dome, but down in the Old Detroit Basin, it always seemed at least a few degrees cooler.

Not that Death minded it much, the Haitian shouldering a small pack to begin his usual morning trek to The Altar down in the bowl itself, a spot constructed crudely of chunks of concrete with the Loa veves for both Legba and Samedi scratched into the surface of a large flat piece, like a plaque. In giving offerings to both the spirits and to the ghosts that wandered the cemetery, the plateau would be approachable for the day. Which was exactly what he was after, since that was where the apothecary rested.

The lights on the surviving city block of the plateau shone warm and yellow, a beacon in an otherwise drab world. There were no lights directly in the cemetery that surrounded the upraised place of the past, leaving it with the residual lights from far above. He surveyed the land he had been maintaining for little over a decade, inhaling deeply the smell of stale earth and cool air before descending down the curling road into the basin below.

The light was faint and seemed to suck all the color out of everything, just bright enough to read the crude scratchings of names and dates, epitaphs and well-wishes in the here-after across makeshift tombstones made of any stony material people could get their hands on. Rows were barely existent, making it look like crooked teeth in an old giant's open mouth. Somewhere in the depths were the remnants of power lines and cables from generations before of what Detroit used to be, looking like tentacles reaching into the depression. The air moved a bit, displaced by people racing about in the upper levels and circulated with the massive ventilation fans in the upper curve of the Dome far above. It whistled through the old cables, making them vibrate in eerie twangs, a melancholy and impromtu dirge for those thousands buried in the soil that had been an older, free Detroit.

For anyone else, the cemetery would have been a dark and dreary place to spend one's existence. To the whistling Caribbean making his way down from the Cemetery Plateau and into the graves themselves, this was simply a way of life. Someone had to maintain the dead, as a reminder to the living and as a reminder to themselves. And that someone happened to be the Vodou ghost-talker making his way down predetermined paths, beaten flat over time into dirt roads that all converged on the center rise, where the last surviving city block of Old Detroit still stood.

Wisps played among the tombstones, bobbing shadows up and down. Once or twice, he caught the glance of eyes, or felt them looking in his direction. Whenever he actively caught them, a jovial wave was given. Just because they were dead didn't mean they didn't want to be treated like they were. It was a rule to greet placid ghosts, and these were only curious, as they were every morning.

The Altar rose in the dreary gloom, the pedestal approached with a sort of quiet reverence. Even those spirits curious and following the ghost-talker stopped at the base of the rise it sat on, overlooking the back half of the cemetery, that darker portion where the lights from above didn't penetrate.

" _Bon maten_." he addressed the veves carved on the back piece, stopping in front of the flat table in front of it and dropping the pack he had brought with him. "I 'ope y'two had a lovely sleep."

Another wind rattled the cables deep in the darker portion of the cemetery, causing a far-off clanging sound. He took that as his answer from the two Loa, pulling out a set of wooden bowls, dipping saucers, and cups; two sets each. These, he scattered routinely across the tabletop and set about pouring a half-bowl of spiced cream, dabbling a bit of fresh honey into the saucers, and pouring cups of spiced rum. Next to the set on his left, he set a bundle of dried tobacco leaves for smoking.

"'Ope y'enjoy breakfast, _wi_?" he added before picking up the shoulder bag and turning to leave. " _Mèsi poutèt ou_ , for watchin' o'er all us in the Basin."

The unseen cables rattled again, brightening his unpainted face with a smile as he strode back down the rise into the cemetery again. It was going to be a good day, he reasoned, catching sight of a cluster of short shadowy ghosts ahead of him on his path back to the plateau.

"Ah, can't b'forgettin' any o'you, can I." he chuckled, setting about on the second task of the morning before the shop opened.

Before he had returned to tend the greenery he sold and paint himself for the day, small clusters of brightly-colored candies and toys, mingled with shot glasses of whiskey, added a sense of life into the otherwise colorless graveyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually like this one, for how short it is. Gives a bit of depth to the daily life, and a hint of setting.


	3. Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recounting life without the Dome.

We have a joke among us.

_‘The sky’s the limit!’  
‘That’s a pretty short limit!’_

It’s a joke to us because of the existence of the Dome. It seems really far up there, almost like the sky from where we are, almost a full hundred levels below it. But we’ve actually touched it. That’s no sky. It’s no better than the artificial sky Kane puts over the top of Deluxe. It’s a really terrible substitute.

We’ve seen the sky. The real sky. It’s not something you can touch. It’s something to really aim for.

I remember on good days, it was clear and blue. Not just one shade, but several shades of blue, mixed and fading in and out of one another. There might have been wisps of clouds. Due to the air currents coming off the lakes, we didn’t get the big fluffy clouds too often.

The air never stopped moving, really. There were days when it would be a little slower, a bit of a light breeze to ruffle the grasses and trees some, but it never came to a standstill save right before a big storm. Living next to a lake the size of a small sea does that, keeps the air moving. Most of the time, if you didn’t get a whiff of Detroit, the air was permeated with the smell of cold fish. After a while, you get used to it and it doesn’t bother you anymore.

At night, the sky darkened to a very dark blue, though it had a warmer undertone, like a promise day would return. If you were lucky and Detroit’s light didn’t bleed too far into it, you could see stars. Pinpricks of light. The further you got from the cities, the more stars you could see until the sky looked like a black canvas that someone had splattered glitter and white paint across.

I remember the weather, too. The wind, of course. There was always wind at some level. I remember the rain the most. The best weather to me will always be rain. It washes away impurity. The world appears fresh and new after it rains. There’s a smell to it that you can never forget, one of cleanliness. It is immersive. You can lose yourself to it, and it gives you the hope that you can start anew. Snow was always a plus; it covers the world in white. All the blemishes given by nature were washed away, even if only temporary. It might be cold and harsh, but at the same time, it’s delicate.

I wonder if the weather still rages outside the Dome. I bet it does. The Dome can cut us off from the world. In here, where if something drips on you, you’d better get tested to make sure you’re not irradiated. But it can’t stop the world turning and changing on the outside.

_'The sky’s the limit!’  
'That’s a pretty short limit!’_

One day, maybe. One day, we’ll see the sky once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is really … really old. And short as sin. But I still kinda like the sound of it.  
> i might rewrite it at a later date but have it anyway for nostalgia’s sake


	4. Wendigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angry old-world monster takes a host.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those with issues and triggers to GENERAL PHYSICAL ABUSE, POSSESSION, CANNIBALISM, and BLOOD OR BLOOD-LETTING, this probably isn’t the minidrabble for you.  
> Otherwise, feel free to continue on, just know that you’ve been warned.

The road rose up swiftly to meet her.  
  
She was vaguely aware of the sound of her body hitting the hard surface long before she felt it. By then, the surreality of her situation finally caught up with her, as the flames licked into the corners of her sight and the searing heat at her back dragged her back into reality. By all means, she should have been killed by that fall, recounting on her way down the failure of years of training and honing her skill to best KaneCo’s Elites only to meet this end. It stung worse than the impromptu fire-pit she had landed in. Perhaps that was what saved her. It was not enough to keep her awake, catching sight of a scrambling figure nearby through glazing eyes and fading vision.  
  
The world faded to black, devouring everything in sight and clouding her mind.  
  
She wasn't sure how long it lasted, floating through the space of her potentially dying mind. It lasted what felt an eternity, coming to alight softly against a nonexistent ground. Was this what dying was? It was peaceful, and she understood now how her mother must have felt that night. Understood the peace she must have felt as her little daughter felt that last waning breath. She didn't want it to end, maybe she would see Mama and Papa soon, if that was what was promised her.  
  
She was relaxing when she heard it, a noise that offset the calm ethereal darkness that surrounded her. It was a sound that was hard to place, something she had to actively think about. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes in the place she presumed to be the afterlife and was surprised at the dark red that tinged the space above her in place of a sky, an ashen-grey and barren wasteland of a ground she had landed on. The noise sounded again, closer than before, and it raised the hair on the back of her neck. It was something unsettling, something that caused the blood to freeze. Suddenly alert, she thought on what that could possibly be as she rose quickly to stand, why it was simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar.  
  
_Trees. It sounds like trees creaking in the wind._  
  
She had not heard that sound in years, so she had forgotten it at first. But why was it so prominent and threatening? It sounded again, from behind her. Slowly, she turned her head, expecting something to be there. The splotched red sky and drab grey ground were the only things that met her gaze. She scanned the area slowly, trying to catch sight of anything that could have made that particular sound. There were no trees in sight, not even grass on the ash-colored flat ground. There wasn't a flutter of wind to blow, even if there had been foliage to rattle and bow. This could mean a number of things, she concluded. One was that she was losing her mind, which given the place she had ended up in, would not have been a stretch. The only other reason she could come to caused the threatening oppression of the place to grow heavier from its faint ambiance.  
  
She was not alone in her own personal purgatory.  
  
As if on cue to her realization, the air became heavier. A smell wafted from seemingly nowhere, thick and pungent, like rotting meat. A tingle up her spine let her know of another presence in the area with eyes on her. She snapped her head front and to the other side. Nothing was there that she could see, nor was there anything behind her. The smell thickened further, permeated her nostrils and made her start to cough against it. She turned forward to cover her face against it and stopped. The shock of finding a figure not much further on the plain in front of her stopped the seize of her chest.  
  
If her perspective was right, the newcomer looked vaguely human and was incredibly tall. She placed it at least at nine feet, if not taller. It was thin, emaciated, covered with a coat of mangy and dirty hair, the colors of mummified skin and aged parchment. On its head sprouted a rack of what could have been impressive antlers, if they weren't sickly black and broken, much like the claws that tipped its long prominently-jointed fingers. But above the rest, it was the eyes that captured and held her attention. Wide and unnatural, wholly white and still vividly visible while sunken into its gaunt face, it felt like it could see straight through her. Into her innermost thoughts and fears. It made her feel unclean, vulnerable. Violated.  
  
It moved after a time, as though brought to life at her acknowledgment of it. The way it moved was ghastly, stuttering and limping across the flatland toward her, bits and pieces of shredded skin off its bloodied arms and clumps of matted hair floating with an unexpected and unsettling grace around it. The lower jaw moved, revealing cracked and jagged teeth, with an unnatural rattle reiterating the sound of creaking trees.  
  
It took a second to register that it was slowly getting faster, closing the distance between them with astonishing speed for a creature that looked and moved like a half-dead nightmarish string-puppet. Something about it unnerved her. Her mind was a dark and twisted place, certainly, but this was a little different than usual. It felt almost like this creature was trespassing. Like it didn't belong there, that it was not actually a construct of her deranged mental landscaping.  
  
It did not take a second thought to decide that the intruding other was not something she wanted to face off against. Even in her own mental construction of what she took as purgatory, where she should have power, she turned and ran. Over the grey plain, certain she was leaving the monster behind her in her flight. For a few moments, she felt free of its intimidating presence, movements smooth and quick, fueled by pure adrenaline.  
  
She was not expecting such a waifish beast to be as heavy, or as powerful, as it was when it slammed into her from the right, sending her sprawling over the ground. There was a brief moment she was airborne before she hit again, the jar of the brutal landing knocking the breath from her lungs. The world still span after she stopped rolling, the sight of the hellish beast gallop-limping toward her spurring her even in her breathlessness to scramble unbalanced to her feet. She turned about with a stumble to one side, resolute to finally face the creature now that she knew she couldn't run from it. Her breath finally caught up in time for the ground to settle. She brought her arms up to cross protectively over her upper body and face, anchoring her left leg back and readying for impact.  
  
The beast bolted at what she took as its full speed toward her before skidding to a stop and drawing its head back. Jaws parted, revealing its dastardly yellowed and jagged teeth as it slammed its head back forward, eyes widening with the deafening shriek that left it. She chanced a glance into the foul-smelling maw, opened wide enough to devour her entire head if it wanted to, and noted with some strange sense of underlying morbidity that the teeth looked almost human. Realization hit that her spiritual trespasser may have once actually _been_ human, warped and twisted by some means beyond what she could comprehend. The screaming stopped abruptly, as did the horrid vision before her. The scent of death and rot waned to somewhat tolerable levels, always present. A quick glance in all directions showed that it had disappeared entirely, and she chalked the scent up to a residual cloud still soaked into her nose. It would pass soon, if the faint smell of burning flesh slowly taking its place had anything to say on the matter.  
  
The second chance was taken almost immediately. She ran. There had to be a way out of her own personal limbo-space and she was going to find it eventually. The landscape remained the same, eternal and completely flat, devoid of all life save for her sprinting form. If the creature haunting her internal wasteland was still around, she did not want to confront it again.  
  
It was all too soon that the monster showed up again, tackling her with shredded spindly forearms wrapped around her. Claw-like fingernails were driven through clothing with ease, piercing into the flesh of her sides and arms before ripping outward. Feeling the dirty daggers dive in and begin shredding wrenched a scream of agonized shock out of her, a reflexive response to the attack. It dropped her, a splattering fan of brilliant red against the muted darker grey of the ground. She crumpled on landing, watching the red begin to pool viscously around her. Her vision blurred, though she was aware enough to see the creature shift slightly to one side. It uttered the rattling creak of before, swayed to the other side.  
  
The shock wore off just enough to move. Every move sent piercing fire through her body, originating from the tears the beast had inflicted, her arms moving to push her up and try to pull her away from it. One arm buckled, the creature moved to bridge itself over her and smack her sideways, not unlike a cat with a mouse. She was prey to it and the recognition of the cruelly playful nature of the malnourished monster caused a small amount of panic. Trying to ignore the searing agony in her upper body, she tried to pull and push herself to stand. She squirmed, barely got one foot flat on the ground, when it made a lilting noise and she  was aware of it moving, smacking her to one side with no effort from one of its massive hands. Something cracked, accompanied by a sickeningly wet **splat!** , a formation of spilled blood across the ground as she hit. Her right arm went limp. By now, her vision clouded and she looked up toward her tormentor, the depraved intruder.  
  
"V-vat d...do you vant from me..."  
  
It was a weak demand, stuttering and slurring, but she very distinctly made out the torn and cracked lips pulling back off those wicked teeth, the eyes widening again as though in victorious understanding that its toyings had caused its potential meal to finally give up, give in to its devious appetite. It never spoke back, merely parted the dangerous jaws and clamped them down around her neck.  
  
There was that same morbid realization that the thing was human.  
_Was_ , at one point, human.  
  
The noises of the feeding monstrosity were muffled out with the approach of her inevitable death, and she could not react to the teeth points driving into flesh and artery even if she wanted to. Pain was falling away, the blurring stark contrast of her own blood the last thing she remembered seeing, rending meat and the pressure of the cannibal's clawed and bloodied hand against her to anchor her in her place and aid its feeding the last she felt. Slowly, her vision faded back to black.  


* * *

  
The ragged old man had been startled by the woman landing in the fire he maintained to keep warm. The shock of the encounter stayed longer than it should have, long enough that the flames had destroyed the fabric of the sweater she wore, replacing the smell of burning wool with that of burning flesh. The scent spurred him into action, stumbling to his feet and reaching into the blaze to grasp the collar of her sweater and pull. At first, the fabric gave way, snapping under the strain. His hands changed position, grabbing the stabilized seams on the shoulders instead and pulling her out of the fire.  
  
She was still smoldering when he pulled her completely out, white smoke curling around her torso and around her shoulders and head. He looked to her right arm, noticing the unnatural way it shifted at just below the elbow joint. The bone had separated from itself and would have to be set, if she was even still alive. An ear to her chest confirmed that, though faint, she was still breathing. He turned quickly toward a pile of various sundries he had gathered over the years for his disposal and use, looking for something to splint the broken arm with, when the sound of heavy footfalls caused him to look over his shoulder.  
  
The junk pile partially obscured him from the KaneCo Elite soldiers who had come in uniform military fashion to the small stake of slum-ruins he called his own. There were orders given, confirmed, and jokes about where she had landed and the state it and its potential owner were in. He noticed that thankfully, his impromptu hiding spot went virtually unnoticed. No one in Motorcity wanted to get in the way of Kane's Elite, if they could avoid it; the majority could be a violent bunch if they thought they were being disrespected, and the old man wanted no trouble.  
  
One of them grabbed the burnt and crumbling wool knit that had been an old military-grade sweater, shouldering his rifle so that he could maneuver the spidery woman into a better position to lift her. The movement triggered something, one that frightened the hidden older man into cowering further behind his junk pile to block what came next.  
  
Her eyes snapped open, glazed over a reflective white with a wild animalistic ferality. Her jaws parted just enough to inhale slowly, accompanied by a rattling creaking noise reminiscent of trees bowing in the wind. It was not long after the evening air was rent with screaming and a short spurt of rifle-fire, heralding the wendigo's return to its old hunting grounds.


	5. First-Hand Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Famine's leg starts to ache.

The scar on her leg is hidden from view, and very few have seen it. It’s a surgical scar, long and clean, knit back together perfectly. Something morbidly pretty to hide the defect of how the bones beneath porcelain-pale skin healed. She doesn’t actively show the scar, but the limp is prominent.

She refuses a cane, always has. It holds no real support, she says, and only furthers to remind her that she is a cripple. It won’t help. It can only hinder her more. People respect that. Why should she need it when she hobbles faster without it than with it.

A little cube-avatar pops up next to her head, within the cylinder of blue screens projected by the little chip she has placed on the ground under her. One of the ceiling crews, those in charge of keeping the Dome far above from decaying and crashing down on the city below.

There is a panel loose, he says. They’re checking for any sort of damage to both the supports and the surrounding panels. They’ll rivet it back down when they’re sure it’s safe, but they’ll need the heavy guns next to the trucks. She relays the news to a small group of Cablers with little to do amid the hustle and bustle of the rest working to stabilize another skyscraper for anchoring. They will be on standby. 

It started when she first started talking, a dull throb in her right leg. She shifts her weight more to the left, but it’s still there. For a brief moment, her face twitches in emotion. Lips drawn thin just a bit before resuming its usual apathy. The leg does this every time they talk of panels, a not-so-subtle reminder to herself of why the Dome panels are important. Why they were slotted into the maintenance schedules every week.

Dome panels are heavy. She knew that even before the first one succumbed to gravity. Almost twelve years ago now. It wasn’t long after they moved in, while they were slotting into their respective societal niches.

She’s lucky she wasn’t wholly crushed, it was her split-second instinct to run at the echoing sound of screaming metal that likely saved her from worse.  
It’s only sad to say that her right leg wasn’t as lucky as she was.  
It was the only time she remembers showing physical emotion publicly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little thing that I was thinking about earlier. Had to get it down before I let it slip away again.  
> Famine needs more love from me.


End file.
